


Womb To Tomb

by Ortolan (toomuchrootbeer)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (only in chapter 1), Anal Sex, Angst, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dark Will, First Time, Gaslightling, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scenes, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Pining, Psychos in love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchrootbeer/pseuds/Ortolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Together, they are a single mass of flesh, scarred and twisted with broken promises and misconstrued intentions." </p><p>The ways in which Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham have shaped each others lives. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _A ship is safe in a harbor, but that's not what ships are built for_ " -John A. Shedd

William Michael Graham is born at 3:54am on June 20th, 1975 in Vatican, Louisiana, 20 minutes north of Lafayette, in a mostly empty hospital room with peeling wallpaper. He doesn't cry when the nurse wipes the congealing fluids from his face. Instead, he gazes up at her with large, blue eyes. His tiny fists curl and uncurl, grasping at the air. Miniature cupid's bow lips part with each breath as the nurse clips the umbilical cord. He still doesn't cry when she pulls the small blue cap over his damp tuft of dark hair.

"He's gonna’ be a real heart breaker one day," she smiles while swaddling him in a sky blue knitted blanket, one of the ones donated by the nursing home up the road. "Just you wait." He lets out a soft whine, forehead wrinkling. "Oh, someone wants their ma," she singsongs, wiping the last of the drying blood from his fingers.

Henry Graham squeezes Nancy's shoulder and smiles down at her. High school sweethearts, homecoming king and queen for three years, class of 72’. This wasn't planned, the wedding wasn't planned, their god-fearing parents weren't happy, but here they are; a family.

When the nurse passes the newborn to his mother, Will presses his nose to her breast, seeking warmth and nourishment. He is met with the rubber end of a baby bottle filled with formula and a single pat to his small head. He still does not cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He is two years old when his mother leaves.

There is a businessman who comes through town selling shares in a company that designs hunting targets in Corpus Christi. He's tall and wears a suit without any patches or stitches. He has jet black hair that's immaculately styled into the latest trend. There is no Louisiana drawl that colors his speech, instead there is a slight Texan lilt that is only noticeable on long vowels. He tips his hat to ladies in the street and shaves every day. They say he went to college back in Dallas.

He is nothing like Henry with his perpetually torn jeans, oil stained hands, and GED. He's not the kind of man who belongs in the bayous and swamps, fishing and hunting. He's an educated man with money and status. 

Nancy Graham leaves Will and his father with a laundry basket full of diapers, a music box containing thirty-seven dollars, and a wedding ring with a fake diamond in the center.

The business folds nine years and two kids later.

Will does not remember her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They move to Eden Isle when Will is six.

He doesn't have any friends, and spends his free time playing with the stray dogs that wander the edge of the lake, or sitting on top of an upturned bucket in the boat yards, watching his dad fix motors. At night, he climbs through his window and up onto the roof of their two room house to look across the lake at the shining city of New Orleans, listening to the soft strains of jazz that drift over the lapping waves.

In the spring his father gets a job fixing motors for the Mardi Gras parade. Will tags along and ogles the colorful faces and beads that decorate the floats. He reaches out to touch one of the bulbs that make the eyes of a gigantic lion's head glow. Instantly he snatches back his finger, the bulb hot to the touch and turning his skin an angry red that doesn't fade for days.

At school he gets good marks but the teachers are concerned that Will in too shy, sitting by himself at lunch and staying inside at recess.

They put him through a series of tests to determine if Will's asocial disposition is a sign of some other disorder. Instead they find that his IQ is higher than average, much higher than average. The school superintendent wants to send him to a private school in Baton Rouge. "He is going to do amazing things," his teachers tell Henry Graham while Will sits at his side, legs swinging in the air, his feet not even brushing the linoleum flooring.

His first day at St. James ends with Will nursing a bloody nose in the principal's office, while another boy is rushed to the hospital with a broken arm and jaw. None of the other kids ever call him 'hand me down' or 'gamin' to his face again.

He leaves two months later, not because of the bullying but because there aren't many boat motors to fix in Baton Rouge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He kills for the first time when he is eleven.

Lady, their big tan mutt, gets her leg caught between two planks in the dock. She won't stop crying, no matter how much Will begs and cries into her side. Blood has dried in her fur and on his clothes, her leg a shattered mess that hangs at a sickening angle. He presses his nose against her neck and whispers soft words as his father loads the shot gun.

"No, no you can't. We have to take her to the vet! We can take her to the vet and they'll fix her, please Dad!" He sobs and shakes, clutching the whimpering dog to his chest.

Henry Graham shakes his head, "No, Will, we can't. Sometimes you have to do something you don't want to because it's the right thing to do. She's in pain. You do what you have to, to help others, even if it hurts you." He places a hand on Will's shoulder and pulls him to his feet. Will's legs tremble beneath him, and he's afraid that he might fall over as the dock rhythmically bobs with the waves of the lake. "Take the gun, Will."

"No," he whimpers, tears welling in his eyes as his father presses the stock into Will's hands. "I don't want to. I don't want to do the right thing!" His words are thick and wavering while Henry Graham arranges his hands and arms into position.

"We do what we have to, Will. Others come first." Will shakes his head, but places his finger over the trigger anyway.

Lady whimpers softly and places her head on her paws in wordless acceptance. "I'm so sorry." Will shuts his eyes but can still hear the bang, can still feel the recoil of the gun and the warm spray of blood across his face.

There is a moment of complete stillness afterwards, broken only by the rapid breaths Will is sucking in. Lady isn't making any noises anymore, and the waves continue their ceaseless battering of the dock.

"You did the right thing, Will. I'm proud of you." Henry rubs his back and takes the shotgun from his trembling hands.

It takes three days to wash all the blood from the cracking boards of the dock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Will is 16, Marcy Davidson tells him to meet her under the bleachers after the halftime show at homecoming.

He moved to Oak Grove two weeks ago, and they have math and biology together. Will isn't sure what Marcy sees in his messy hair and secondhand clothes, but every time she and her friends pass him in the hallway they giggle and hug their books tighter to their chests.

When he gets there she is leaning against one of the support poles, blonde hair done up in a ponytail that just grazes the top of her cheerleading uniform. "Hey," she says, blowing a bubble through her equally candy pink lips.

Will pushes his glasses further up on his nose, "Hey."

The bleachers creak above them as the Oak Grove Tigers score another three points. Marcy saunters towards him, popping her gum and twirling her hair. "You're new here right?"

"Yeah, my dad and I just moved up here from Cottonport." He doesn't meet her eye, focusing on where his beaten up shoes are scraping the dirt.

"Is that where you grew up, Cottonport?" She asks, popping the ‘t’ at the end of port. "There's practically nothing there."

He lets out a forced laugh, "I mean, there's a movie theater. My dad and I move around a lot."

"Oh yeah?" Marcy crowds him against another support pole, "Do you like movies?"

"Not really." His voice comes out high and flighty as Marcy starts undoing his belt. "What are you-" Will’s hand darts out, grasping loosely around her delicate wrist.

"I like you, Will. You get that, right?" She pops her gum and slips her hand inside his pants, gripping his dick through his boxer briefs. "Do you like me too?" Marcy bats her eyelashes and blushes as he grips her arm tighter and his breathing picks up. Will awkwardly nods his head and releases her, allowing her fingers to slip inside his waistband and skim through his pubic hair.

He swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut as she begins to ease his jeans and underwear down around his knees until he is fully exposed to the muggy September air. His head tilts back and hits the metal pole, letting out a dull thunk as Marcy sinks to her knees. He hears what he assumes is her spitting out her gum and his only thought is that he isn't the first boy to meet her under the bleachers after the halftime show.

The next Monday, Marcy doesn't speak to him and won't meet his eye. When he tries to talk to her she hisses into his ear, "It was a dare, get over it, Graham."

He and his Dad move to Leesville the next month.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will gets roped into a drug bust at the last minute when Officer Konchanski calls in sick. It’s a routine takedown of a small time drug trafficker who is bringing cocaine into New Orleans from Mississippi. They raid the store front without any problems. Five agents go through the front door, five go through the loading bay.

Silas Moreau races into the stockroom, arm wrapped around a teenage girl’s neck, pistol pressed against her skull. She cries and scratches at his arm before being silenced by the click of his gun cocking. “Stay back or I’ll fucking paint the walls red! Do you hear me?” 

The primary team circles him, weapons drawn, “Mr. Moreau, let the girl go and surrender your weapon.”

Moreau shakes his head and begins to back up, unaware of the second squadron behind him. Will holds his breath as the target moves closer. He could shoot Moreau right now, take this girl out of the equation. But standard procedure dictates that there can be no endangerment of hostages via police fire. His finger twitches against the trigger. It would be so easy.

“I said drop the weapon!” Sergeant Price commands, adjusting his grip on his gun, face shielded behind the standard issue protective helmet. “There is nowhere for you to go, we have the building surrounded.” Will is a few feet behind Moreau. If he could just take another step he could press the barrel of his gun into that asshole’s greasy hair.

Moreau’s eyes flick back and forth before violently shoving the girl to the ground and firing a quick succession of shots at Sargent Price, who crumples like a marionette cut from its strings. Will lunges at Moreau, cocking his gun. Before he can fire, Moreau turns, knocking the gun from his hands and slamming Will face first into the wall. As the wind is knocked out of him, Will feels the blade slice through his Kevlar vest and bury itself in his shoulder. His legs give out underneath him instantly and he falls in a heap on the cement floor.

Before he can register the pain there is another explosion of fire and Moreau’s body jerks wildly as he is pierced by a hailstorm of bullets. He crashes to the floor, glossy eyes staring at the cracking ceiling, his blood pooling around him like a crimson halo.

Will’s shoulder throbs as Officer Barrow applies pressure to the wound and pulls him to his feet. The teenage girl is sobbing and shaking, ignoring the blanket Sergeant Fortier is trying to wrap around her.

Officer Perez brushes her bangs back behind her ear as she performs CPR on Sergeant Price. Will knows it’s too late, he feels it radiating through his bones.

Weeks later at Sergeant Marcus Price’s funeral, as his wife cradles their baby daughter in her arms, Will clenches his fist and keeps his head down. He feels out of place with his arm wrapped in a sling. A stab wound is nothing compared to the pain Price’s family is feeling right now.

He should have taken the shot. He should have been faster. He should have seen the knife.

He knows he should stay on the squad to help track down the rest of the drug ring. At least then there would be some justice for Price.

He resigns three days later.

There are a lot of things Will _should_ have done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we get into the canon of the show and the introduction of Hannibal! These next three chapter will be primarily Will's take on existing scenes, as well as missing scenes I've added that I feel improve his characterization, and account for some of his actions. Hope you enjoy! :)

_“It seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.” Virginia Woolf_

He lands a part-time teaching job at Quantico after someone realizes he was the one who cracked the Marlow case a few years back. Most of the time people realize pretty quickly that he’s not much of one for social interaction, and they steer clear of him. On occasion someone will try to strike up a conversation in the cafeteria, but after a few minutes of single word responses they lose interest.

The students are ambivalent towards him. Some ask too many questions, others never speak and that suits him just fine. He fails a good portion of the class. They’re all too bright eyed and optimistic, each one thinking they’re going to catch the serial killer of the year and end up on the cover of Time magazine. Will knows they’re much more likely to get shot or stabbed on any given day patrolling than arresting the next Jack the Ripper. He tells himself that it’s for their own good.

Will knows that Jack Crawford over at the BSU has his eye on him. He isn’t really sure when it became apparent that his brain didn’t follow the same thought process as anyone else. It was probably when he started asking questions that most people thought were irrelevant or stupid and got results that made people’s jaws drop. Or maybe it was when he realized that Marcy wasn’t really interested in him while his dick was halfway down her throat.

It doesn’t usually impede on his daily life as long as he doesn’t look too close. It’s easy enough to ignore the fact that the woman bagging his groceries didn’t shower that morning, or the fact that the girl in the second row, who always wears a red ribbon in her hair, is only at Quantico because she lost her father when she was little and now she’s looking for payback. It’s easy enough when he avoids interacting with them more than necessary.

Most of the time he avoids people to avoid the armloads of emotional baggage they all carry.

In elementary school Will heard that when threatened by a lion, most prey animals will freeze, not breathing or moving until the lion gets bored and moves on. He lives his life in a similar manner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will’s whole body is shaking; blood is rushing in his ears. His entire body is thrumming as he visibly jerks back and forth in uncontrollable spasms.

Hannibal appears from nowhere and wraps a steady hand around the girl’s throat. Her glassy eyes flick slowly between the two of them.

Will scrambles to his feet, slipping on blood as he braces himself against the counter, trying to catch his breath. Hannibal is saying something, but Will can’t process whatever it is. Instead he just stares at the corpse of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his head slumped against the cupboard, knife inches from his fingers.

Without thinking about it, Will kicks the blade under the fridge.

Hobbs body lies still before him, but at the same time it heaves and writhes with a thousand black and hungry flies. There is a low buzzing in Will’s ears as their thin wings rattle back and forth before bursting behind his eyelids into a swarming mass of shadows that dissipates into the edges of his vision.

Time seems to stretch onwards forever and move instantaneously fast. The ambulance sirens come after what could have been hours or seconds. Paramedics rush in, a blur of orange and white, wrapping gauze around the girl’s throat and transferring her to a stretcher.

Hannibal places a hand on Will’s shoulder as she is wheeled out, “Are you alright, Will?”

Will nods numbly, fingers twisting uselessly in his shirt tails. Hannibal reaches out and gently takes the empty gun from Will as one might take a toy from a tired infant. He places the useless weapon on the counter and guides Will from the kitchen with a strong hand on his back. Later, while tossing his ruined clothes in the trash, Will will wonder where exactly the large bloody smear on the back of his shirt came from, the small gesture of kindness forgotten amongst the thrumming of his rattled brain.  

Once they are outside, Hannibal directs Will towards the rental car they came in, before jogging over to the ambulance. With a final glance at Will, he climbs into the back with the Hobbs girl and then the sirens start up again and they are whisked away to the ER.

Will sits in the car, staring at his reflection in the dirty windshield. There is blood on his glasses, staining the world around him a sickly red.

He watches as the local police and the FBI rope off the scene, and the forensics team moves in to photograph and document the carnage. Part of Will wants to see the body bags, part of him knows they likely will not be moved for hours. The rest of Will is horrified at the primal urge to see the repercussions of his actions, the bloody result of his wrath. He wants to see what he is capable of.

The memory of Sergeant Price comes back to Will. The way he looked, bleeding out on the floor of that storeroom, all because Will couldn’t pull the damn trigger.

He’d just pulled the trigger ten times. Someone is still dead, but maybe, just maybe, the Hobbs girl will live.

The part of his brain that empathized with Hobbs enough to catch him whispers in his ear. _You have to honor him. You have to eat him. Otherwise, it’s just murder._

After Will gives his statement he heads straight for the phone box sized shower in his motel. The showerhead is crusted with corrosion, and the water smells faintly of sulfur. He watches as the water turns red with Hobbs blood and swirls down the drain. Will is faintly reminded of watching _Psycho_ for the first time when he was 15 years old and flicking through channels late at night while nursing a 101-degree fever.

Later that evening, after he has scrubbed his skin raw trying to remove any trace of Hobbs, Will heads to the hospital. The nurses direct him to the ICU where he finds Hannibal asleep in a chair next to the girl. Abigail Marie Hobbs, her chart reads. 

With a sigh, Will settles into the other chair and looks out the window. A flock of birds are perched in a nearby tree, calling to each other as the sun dips below the horizon. They are perfectly in time with the predictable beep of Abigail’s heart rate monitor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zeller drags Will out to drinks along with Katz and Price after they close a particularly grim case. The Angel Maker wasn't caught and he didn't surrender, he won.

The bar is loud and too crowded. Will keeps his head down and quietly drinks his beer, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Katz hops onto the stool beside him and elbows his side, "You feeling okay?" He nods stiffly and gives her a halfhearted smile. "We weren't going to make you come if you really didn't want to. I know this isn't really your thing, but I thought you might have some fun." 

"I'm just tired," Will offers, but he knows it's a weak excuse.

Price and Zeller are well on their way to drunk, arguing loudly about the merits of double blind studies over single blind studies. "Are you doing okay, Graham?" She puts a hand on his shoulder. "You know you can tell me if you're not, right? I'm here for you, okay."

"Thanks Beverly," he drains the rest of his beer and orders a second. "It's just, this job, you know? I don't even know if I should be out there in the first place, but if I don't these things keep happening." Will drags a hand down his face and lets out a groan.

"I'm not a psychiatrist, but I would say that you can't try and save everyone Will. You can't be Atlas holding up the world, let other people help you." Beverly gives him a pat on the back and moves to break up Brian and Jimmy's argument that has quickly turned into a make out session against the bathroom door. "Are you kidding me, again?! What the fuck Brian?"

Will smiles into his beer and tries not to think about what would happen if Atlas asked mortals to hold up the Earth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal Lecter plays the harpsichord.

He is, without a doubt, the most pretentious person Will has ever met, and he works in Washington D.C. 

The entryway to Hannibal’s office is overly garish, decorated with claw footed green velvet chairs and animal hide cushions. He can only guess at the price of the artwork hanging on the walls. With the vaulted ceilings, countless books, arches between the pillars behind his desk, and the ceiling to floor windows, Hannibal’s office says much more about himself than anything else. It is grandiose and exotic, much like the man himself.

Will drops his bag onto the chaise lounge before sinking into one of the disarmingly comfortable chairs closer to his desk.

“Good evening, Will. I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Hannibal closes his notebook and stands to greet him. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

Will nods, “Please.”

Hannibal presents him with a crystal glass of red wine that Will knows probably costs more than what he has in his wallet at any given time. But honestly, he can’t tell the difference between this and a bottle of two buck chuck. Whatever gets him drunk.

Will knows it won’t do him any good to continue carrying around a half formed grudge against the rich. But he’s a stubborn guy, and years of floating from town to town, living off of a fist full of dollars each week tends to have a lasting impact on someone.

But Hannibal, on the other hand, oozes wealth and sophistication. Where Will is inclined to wipe his hand on his sleeve, Hannibal produces a pocket hanky. They are complete opposites. Hannibal is all clean lines and tradition, a silver spoon upbringing, Will is a scruffy creature of habit.

Each time Will is offered a glass of wine, or a meal of some animal he has never even heard of, he feels a small niggle in his brain, reminding him that no matter how friendly they are, Hannibal will always be one of _them_. A man who has never had to stitch up a cut with dental floss, or buy a ratty pair of jeans from a secondhand store because it was all he could afford. Hannibal and Will are identically different, each growing up on an extreme and yet they find some shared middle ground over a glass of wine.

“Did you know that Michelangelo once depicted Moses with goat horns, similar to the traditional depiction of Satan in the time?” Hannibal asks around the lip of his glass.

Will shakes his head, “I’ve never been much of an art snob.”

“Many believe it was the result of a simple mistranslation of a passage in the Bible in which Moses comes down from Mount Sinai with the tablets. But some believe it was a conscious decision to connect Moses with Satan,” Hannibal sets down his glass and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Interesting how one can interpret such divisive imagery. Horns as a show of defiance or a simple misunderstanding. What do you think your horns mean, Will? Is your empathy simply a mistranslation of signals around you which allows you to empathize more deeply with killers, or indicative of a deeper meaning?”

Will snorts, “Do I think my empathy links me with psychopaths and killers beyond just understanding them? No.”

“Belief versus intent. An interesting philosophical and historical debate, perhaps for another time,” Hannibal cocks his head to one side, sizing Will up. He fidgets under the gaze of the other man, “Are you religious, Will?”

“I grew up in the south. The Bible was practically hammered into my head,” Will shrugs and swirls the dregs of his wine around in the glass, “It never really took, I guess. What about you, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. “I do not ascribe to any sort of organized religion, or believe in any Judeo-Christian God. But I do hold faith in a higher power; be that fate, the universe, or a deity. I prefer to revel in the knowledge of continued and perpetual ignorance. The idea of death and the uncertainty of an afterlife or inherent morals frees me. The thought that I could die at any moment and be faced with either judgment or eternal nothing is calming.”

Will raises his glass, “To perpetual ignorance and grey morals.”

“The idea of God is compelling in the abstract, but not so in application. He dropped a roof on 34 of his worshipers last week in Texas as they sang him a hymn. Killing must feel good to God, and are we not created in his image?” Hannibal finishes his wine with a flourish, raising his eyebrows at Will.

His words hang heavy in the air, the implication crystal clear.

_If God enjoys killing, why do men abhor it?_

Will quirks an inquisitive eyebrow, “It depends on who you ask. But can you say that God felt good about that; killing his followers?”

Hannibal smiles nearly imperceptibly, “He certainly felt powerful.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abigail Hobbs has an ugly scar on her neck and sad eyes that follow Will as he paces across her hospital room.

“I, uh, got you this,” Will awkwardly fumbles with the brown package in his bag, the ribbon hopelessly crushed from its journey. “The nurses told me your birthday was coming up and I just figured why not?”

She takes the present in her long fingers, toying with the ribbon for a moment, “Thank you, Agent Graham.”

“You can call me Will, I’m not an agent,” he watches as Abigail carefully removes the wrapping and opens the box.

She spreads the spool of plastic line, pliers, a bag of hooks, and a multitude of colored feathers across the pale blanket in front of her. “These are beautiful, Will,” she weighs the name in her mouth, caressing the soft feathers like they might disappear at any moment.

Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “Its fly tying gear. I fish a lot, it’s calming. Maybe once you’re out of here I could take you sometime, it might help with what’s going on.”

Abigail looks up at Will, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’d like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello?” Alana sounds distracted, the shuffling of papers audible in the distance.

Will takes a breath, “I’m drunk.” He tips his head back against the fabric of his chair. “I’m drunk and I don’t know what day it is or what time it is.”

“It’s November 12th, almost 7 o’clock. Are you okay, Will?” Now she sounds concerned and Will is only barley sober enough to suppress a snort. To think that Alana Bloom of all people would be concerned about him. She hadn’t been too concerned about him when she pressed his heart back into his hands with a pitying look, leaving behind only the faint scent of her vanilla perfume.

“I’m fine,” he asserts, “I’m drunk.”

She hums, uncertainty evident. “Do you want to talk about something? Or do you want me to come over and-”

“No,” Will interrupts. “No, just wanted to let you know I’m not gonna’ be at work tomorrow. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and I’m bringing Hannibal some dinner tomorrow. He’s not really cooking a whole lot with the whole investigation team messing up his office. I just wanted to let you and Jack know and I was thinking about yesterday and what you said and I -”

“Go to bed, Will. Get some rest. Talk to Hannibal,” Alana swallows, “A relationship is just not something I’m ready for right now, and I don’t think you are either, Will. This is just a moment in time. Let it be just that, a moment. We can move forward and see where we stand after you are yourself again.”

“Yeah,” he adds weakly, “you’re right.”

“I’m concerned about you, Will. I really am. And I do like you, it’s just not the right thing to do right now,” there is the sound of a chair scraping against hard wood as she stands. “Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

“Sure, Alana,” Will sighs, taking another swig from his glass of whiskey. “I won’t do anything stupid. Well, stupider than getting shit faced on a week night,” he amends with a rueful laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Georgia Madchen lies quietly in her hyperbaric chamber, staring at the ceiling with a bored expression. Will isn’t sure if she knows he’s there, or if she even cares that he is just watching her from a distance. He grips his IV stand loosely, wishing he had a drink of some kind because right now his mouth is hopelessly dry. If Georgia notices him and tries to start a conversation, Will is fairly certain that his words will come out cracked and brittle.

She is pretty beneath the jaundice and scabs. There are bright eyes and laugh lines like canyons in rock face around her mouth. Somewhere along the line a happy little girl became a woman unsure of her own existence.

That is what scares Will the most. Not the Glasgow smiles, or the peeling skin, or even the hiding under the bed like a child’s nightmare. Her own uncertainty that seems to so eerily mirror his own is what shakes Will Graham to the core.

Her mother said the doctors were just guessing, fumbling blindly for some diagnosis that would fit well enough to attempt treatment, if only to try and placate the family. Managing expectations is what Mrs. Madchen had said.

Will doesn’t want to manage his expectations. He wants to catch killers and go home to his dogs and relax on the porch with a few fingers of whiskey at the end of the day.

Georgia went to Beth for help, unsure if she was alive or not, and she’d felt betrayed. Will doesn’t feel betrayed, not yet at least. Hannibal is who he goes to for help, the one who is there when the foundation of Will’s world views begin to crumble. When the structure begins to shudder Hannibal is the one he turns to in order to shore up the moorings of his mind.

Mental illness is not something that can be shored up or cured; it’s a treatment and managing prescription, fraught with medication and misdiagnoses. Will can hardly remember to do the laundry let alone take antipsychotic drugs multiple times a day.

But if he can’t be self-sufficient with or without medication he’s going to end up like Georgia; scared and violent before being captured and kept under a microscope like some rare tropical insect, ripe for dissection. Jack already watches him closely enough. The idea of having an entire medical team breathing down his neck, analyzing his every word and action is petrifying.

Will can’t end up like Georgia. He can’t be a bug under glass. But he also can’t stand the thought of becoming a lecture topic at Quantico along with Garrett Jacob Hobbs and the Chesapeake Ripper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will’s thumb aches every time he readjusts his grip on the gun. It’s obviously broken, not that it means much in the big picture.

The states pass in a blur; Ohio, Wisconsin. They’re all just battered welcome signs, printed in cheery font on long-faded metal. Red headlights morph into phantom cars, passing them at a slow staccato.

Hannibal hasn’t said anything for hours, though he remains focused on the road ahead. Will’s eyelids droop and he rests his head against the door. The vibration of the window momentarily jerks him awake, fitfully rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“You should rest,” Hannibal chides, glancing over at him. “We are still hours from Minnesota. Sleep while you can, I’ll get us there safely.”

Will regards him warily for a moment. If he goes to sleep, who is to stop Hannibal from pulling over and calling Jack. Just because he hasn’t outright threatened the man doesn’t mean that Hannibal wants to be driving through rain to Minnesota right now.

His headache is starting to subside as Will reluctantly curls in on himself in the leather seat. There is dried mud on the floor by his feet, and Will regrets not making an attempt to wipe it off before getting in the car.

The day feels like a half remembered nightmare. If it had just been Abigail he would believe it. Will would accept that he got too far inside Hobbs’ head and just did what Hobbs couldn’t do. But Georgia Madchen, Dr. Sutfliffe, Marissa Shurr, and Cassie Boyle? No. It’s not possible. He wasn’t sick when Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr were killed. 

When Jack had told him what was tied in his fishing lures it had clicked; somebody is setting him up. Somebody who knows the cases and has access to the investigations; somebody who knows he is unstable. Whoever it is, it’s someone close to him, and that’s what scares Will even more than jail time and the death penalty. The idea that someone close to him would frame him for murder was so incomprehensible that it had to be the truth.

Slowly, like melting ice, the scales were beginning to fall from his eyes. For the first time he was seeing the copy cat without the smoke and mirrors that he had hidden behind. He had tried so hard to see him beyond the pictures of dead faces, and between the lines of police reports. Each time he was met with the same shadowy stag, pointing and urging him forward into the mist.

Now, the stag had evolved. Replaced by a man made of bone and sinew with great horns sprouting from his temples, and long fingers that reached for Will in the dark.

“We’re here,” Hannibal nudges his shoulder, gently pulling him back to consciousness. The mid afternoon sun hurts Will’s eyes as he staggers out of the car, gun gripped loosely in one hand. “What are you expecting to find, Will?” Hannibal follows at a distance, giving Will space as he picks the lock to the porch door.

“Closure.”  

When they reach the kitchen there is a sickening pool of dried blood where Abigail died.

“It’s as if Abigail was destined to die in this kitchen,” Hannibal murmurs, watching as Will stares at the floor, half expecting to see his face reflected in the flaking blood. Instead he sees Hannibal’s shadow extend next to his, long antlers sprouting from either side of his head like a halo.

In an instant it all makes sense. The shadow dissipates to reveal the true Hannibal Lecter in all of his horned glory.


	3. Chapter 3

_“At what point does a man turn into a monster? I don’t believe that it’s when he does horrible things, but when he accepts that he’s able to do them, and that he does them well.”_ _― John Greenleaf Whittier_

Will swims through a haze of drugs, struggling to take in the dim surroundings of his cell. He isn’t sure how long he stares at the ceiling, watching the spider web of cracks in the cement swirl and transform before his glazed eyes. 

They tell him he was sick. Something was wrong with his brain. Will could have told them that without all the scans and blood tests.

It takes weeks for them to get his doses right. Through trial and error; days of erratic violence that get him restrained, and days where his limbs feel so heavy Will can’t move more than a few inches to vomit off the side of his bed. They stare at him like some kind of pitiful thing, crawling around in its own filth.

Hannibal lurks in the shadows at the fringes of his vision. He is plagued by nightmares, writhing awake on the firm mattress that smells of sweat and mildew. Vague memories float back to him, half remembered dreams and events that jumble together into a macabre vision of antlers and severed ears.

During the first week in the BSHCI Will refuses to eat, insisting that the meat is human rather than heavily processed chicken. Eventually, the orderlies have to restrain him and feed him with a long plastic tube that makes Will shake and cry, dredging up a gut reaction to some memory he can’t recall. Afterwards, they leave him in his bed, secured in a straightjacket so he can’t use his fingers to make himself throw up like he did the first time.

Barney is the only orderly that is remotely nice to him. When he works the nightshift he pulls up a chair outside Will’s cell and reads Robert Frost out loud. His gentle voice lulls Will into a fitful sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A bite guard.

That’s what Chilton had called it, a mirthful smile accompanying his cheery tone as the plastic and leather contraption was slipped over Will’s head. The straightjacket and the foot cuffs had been bad enough, not to mention the addition of the heavy plastic muzzle to his already macabre get up.

Half way through the two-hour trip to the crime scene, Will mumbles to one of the orderlies that he needed to relieve himself. When they arrive at the observatory, an orderly with almost comically broad shoulders bends down to undo the straightjacket strap between his legs. For a moment Will isn’t sure what is happening, until the orderly reaches inside his jumpsuit to pull out his dick.

“Go,” he says, turning his back on Will, using his body to shield him in an attempt to preserve what little modesty he has left. A moment later, Will’s cheeks burn at the sound of urine hitting the gravel. Shame settles like a weight in his stomach when he spots red curls and hears the telltale clicking of a camera shutter. Freddie Lounds disappears behind an FBI van as he is tucked back into the rough cotton of his briefs.  

They bring him inside the observatory, bustling with somber agents photographing and taking notes. In an instant Jack clears the room, so it’s just the two of them and the melting slices of Beverly Katz.

The mask is constricting in a way that Will never thought about before this moment. It’s not tight, but it presses up against his nose just enough to be a constant reminder of its presence. His breath is stiflingly hot against his lips and face, making the air warm and uncomfortable. The sturdy leather strap rests against his skull, matting his hair down uncomfortably.

Will is muzzled like a dog. Beverley used to call him Jack Crawford’s bloodhound. The words ring a bit too true right now, as Jack undoes the straps securing Will to the cart, and pulls him into a standing position. He ducks his head, Jack’s fingers deftly removing the oppressive mask, and takes a deep shaky breath.

Jack gives Will a pitying look, before heading down the stairs, leaving him alone with the body.

He knows that Jack could get fired, maybe even arrested for doing this. But it’s the first time in months that Will has been able to walk without restraints outside of his cell, and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 _You said you just interpret the evidence,_ Beverly says from the well of Will’s mind. _So interpret the evidence._

The Ripper is lurking in the darkness of the observatory, watching Will move about the scene, reconstructing the crime. It’s so painfully clear to him yet murky to Jack and the FBI it makes Will want to scream. But he knows that if he opens his mouth he won’t be able to stop. He will become one of those tragic creatures rocking back in forth in the corner of their cell, whispering and whimpering to themselves in the dark.

He knows it was Hannibal Lecter. Beverly found the Ripper, and he left her for Will.

She is not strung up or gutted. Beverly is picked apart and displayed. Analyzed, the same way she processed and waded through crime scenes, searching for evidence. The same method that brought her to Hannibal Lecter’s doorstep last night, and ended with her dripping on the observatory floor.

“Who is he, Will?” Jack’s voice pulls Will from his thoughts. His voice thick with emotion and impatience. He is desperate, pleading for something that will shine light on the swirling and heaving darkness that fills the room.

“Beverly made her connection to the Ripper,” Will picks his words carefully, chewing his lip. “You have to make your own, Jack.”

He is met with a stern frown, “Then what did I bring you here for?”

“A chance to say goodbye?” Will breathes, struggling to suppress the tears that prick in his eyes and the scream that bubbles in his throat.

With a huff, Jack turns to pick up the straightjacket. “We’re done here.”

As the mask is secured back over his face, Will can’t stop the tears that roll down his cheeks, pooling along the seam of plastic and skin. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How beautiful the Copycat is, with his curly hair and hunched shoulders that disguise strength and malice. Will Graham would look stunning dripping with blood, knife in hand. It’s such a shame he got sick.

Matthew studies the gentle slope of his back and the arch of his nose as he sits in the visiting area, head bowed in the cage. He doesn’t talk much to any of the orderlies except for a soft thanks during meals.

Will Graham isn’t like the other patients that fill Matthew’s hours with their crying and yelling between having their blood taken and diapers changed.

_Imagine if the hawks started working together._

Matthew can feel his stomach twisting when Will turns to look at him, eyes hard, and for the first time, he can see that Will Graham is certainly a killer, despite his protestations.

_I want you to kill Hannibal Lecter._

It is time to leave the world of shadows and enter the world of the Ripper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He can’t remember how to tie his shoes.

After months of Velcro closures and straps Will’s fingers twist uselessly in the laces of his shoes. It’s not that he doesn’t know how, it’s that his fingers lack the dexterity. A life time of tying lures and handling guns is reduced to rudimentary fumbling because his fine motor skills have regressed to that of a child. Handling only dull spoons has left Will glaring accusingly at the lace-up pair of boots he was admitted in.

The sweater and pants hang loosely around his frame. Thankfully neither have any difficult fastenings. It feels like a lifetime since he felt the rub of cotton or denim against his skin instead of the cheap polyester jumpsuit.

He can hear Chilton impatiently tapping his cane against the cement floor. With a resigned sigh, Will tugs on the laces as much as he can, tightening the boot so it won’t fall off, before he wads the excess ends into a ball that he then shoves down between the front of his foot and the shoe. It looks bulky and stupid; like a little kid trying on their father’s shoes, but it’s the best he can manage.

Stumbling behind Chilton, Will feels strange passing the row of cells without hand and foot cuffs clinking behind him. Fingers and pinched faces press against the bars, reaching out and hissing in jealousy at the free man.

Once they reach the front door and step out into the crisp air Will expects to feel different. He assumed that the feeling of someone sitting on his chest and eyes watching his every move would dissipate into the wind, but instead he just feels cold. Wrapping his arms around his sides, Will climbs into the waiting transport vehicle, the unfamiliar crunch of gravel beneath his too heavy boots.

On the way to Wolf Trap, Will leans his head against the window, watching cars and bikes pass along with the clouds drifting overhead. He can feel tears prickling in his eyes and he can barley suppress the shaky breaths he huffs out as they leave Baltimore behind. For a moment he pretends that it will be the last time he sees the city, letting himself revel in the feeling of triumph as they careen away from her bright lights and bustling roads.

Alana is waiting on his porch when they pull up. Winston and Buster careen towards the car, knocking into Will with a force that almost sends him sprawling in the snow. The other dogs race to him in a stream of fur and yipping.

Nestling his nose in their thick winter coats, Will lets himself cry for the first time in months. Loud, gasping sounds into the sea of wet noses and muddy paws. He doesn’t even notice the snow soaking into his socks and boots.

Alana watches from the porch, dog leash clasped in her hands. She wonders how they all could have been so wrong about Will Graham.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Bernardone is a mirror of a man. When Will takes in his hesitant gaze and stuttering speech he feels as though he is looking at his own self perception and fears turned outwards and crystalized into a fully formed man.

When he says that the man responsible for Sara’s death will make sure no one believes him, Will feels his stomach clench in recognition. He knows what it’s like to point at a killer and have nobody believe you. He says as much to Jack, in front of Hannibal, and is met with the same unyielding faith in the psychiatrist that everyone in the BAU still accepts, even after Beverly’s death. Hannibal, to his credit, shows no reaction beyond a cursory glance back at Clark Ingram, before turning to follow Jack through the door.

There is something about Peter that nags at Will like a fish hook lodged in his skin, tugging incessantly. Most people would say it is a desire to protect and shelter him. Will knows better.

It isn’t until the moment he sees Peter stitching the horse’s abdomen closed that it hits him. He envies Peter and his ability to hate Dr. Ingram. Will only wishes his feelings towards Hannibal were so simple. He wishes it would be easy to just shoot Hannibal or strangle him until his eyes bulged and blood ran down his lips. But it isn’t because there are so many different messy emotions clouding Will’s sight when it comes to Hannibal. He feels like a man trapped in a dark room, subjected to occasional swirling bright lights as he is spun around and around until he isn’t sure what is up and what is down.

If only he could just hate Hannibal Lecter and be done with him. But instead, he is interested, painfully interested in the good doctor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will drives through the snow to Baltimore. He knows it’s late, he knows it’s stupid. But he doesn’t know what else to do.

In recent months Hannibal has become a sort of crutch, the rudder by which Will steers his life. Though Alana and Jack are concerned about his intentions towards Hannibal, he feels comfortable and firm in his knowledge of where they stand with each other. For now, it’s an easy camaraderie, fraught with unspoken words and half truths on both sides. But it works for them.

He knows that Hannibal deplores rudeness, and showing up at his house well past midnight could very easily be interpreted as rude, but Will decides to take his chances. By the time he pulls into Hannibal’s driveway the snow is coming down in large flakes that cling to his eyelashes and form spindles of frost on the tips of the tall pine trees by the front door. Pulling the spare key out from behind a loose brick, Will lets himself inside, stomping the snow off his boots in the foyer before heading to the parlor. He finds Hannibal seated at the harpsichord, composing in his dressing gown.

“Good evening, Will,” he says without looking up from the sheet music. There is nothing in his tone to indicate that Will showing up unannounced in the middle of the night is anything out of the ordinary. “What brings you to Baltimore this evening?”

“Thoughts of fatherhood,” Will takes off his coat and sinks into one of the plush velvet chairs opposite Hannibal.

Hannibal hums a soft affirmation, marking the sheet music before turning to look at him, “You were unaware that Margot was not taking contraceptives. It’s only natural to feel conflicted, given the circumstances. She has put you in an unusual situation,” he stands and walks to Will’s chair, placing his hands on the leather back. “On one hand you are drawn to the child, but on the other you did not seek fatherhood,” Hannibal pauses for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “How was your relationship with your father, Will?”

Will tips his head back and lets out a long winded sigh, “He did his best, given the circumstances.”

“Your mother left when you were young,” Hannibal moves to sit in the other chair, leaning forward, “Your father was the only role model you had growing up, am I correct?”

The room is warm and Will worries that he is going to sweat all over Hannibal’s expensive velvet and fur chairs. They’re ugly as hell, maybe ruining them with nervous sweat would be a favor, “We traveled around a lot. He fixed a lot of boats. He drank a lot when there weren’t any boats,” Will shrugs, his skin prickling under Hannibal’s gaze. It feels like with each word Hannibal is crawling further into Will, wrapping himself around Will’s arms and torso, squeezing secrets from his lips. “One Christmas he got drunk and put his fist through the kitchen wall because he got laid off at the marina in Lake Charles.” Will pauses, chewing his lip, “Then he told me I was an accident. ‘Should have bought the name brand rubbers’ he said,” Will shakes his head, a sardonic smile distorting his lips into a facsimile of amusement. “He did what he could for me, given the circumstances. All in all, he wasn’t a bad guy, just not well suited to paternity.”

Hannibal tips his head, wetting his lips, “Are you afraid that you are following in your father’s footsteps, Will? An unplanned child in unfortunate circumstances. It’s an easy connection to make,” Will half expected a convoluted reference to some Greek tragedy before the obvious cyclical pattern of his life to be pointed out. “Margot did say that she does not expect you to be involved unless you wish to be.”

“I have to be involved,” Will insists, shaking his head. “It’s my kid, I have to be involved. I can’t walk out,” he drags a hand through his hair. “I have to be involved,” Will’s voice cracks on the last syllable. He looks up through hooded eyes to see Hannibal studying his face with a thin veil of dethatched interest masking the hungry, predatory beast coiled beneath.

“What sort of father will you be, Will?” Hannibal muses, “Will you go to parent-teacher conferences and put notes in their lunch. Or will you take your pent up rage and frustration at living an unwanted life out on the kitchen wall, like your father did?”

“I’ll be a good father,” Will says firmly, fingers gripping the arm rest, jaw set.

Hannibal smiles as Will shifts in his chair, “How quickly we form attachments to things that do not yet exist.”

“I haven’t been truly attached to anything since Abigail,” it feels like his mouth has filled with cotton, the words slipping out of their own accord. They feel heavy and flabby on his tongue.  

Hannibal visibly stiffens at the mention of her name, “I’m so sorry, Will.”

“I still dream about Abigail,” Will continues, tears pricking at his eyes, “I dream that I’m teaching her how to fish. And then just when she starts to reel her line in she starts sinking. I reach for her. There is so much fear in her eyes.” His eyes are distant and his words are rasped out, “When she opens her mouth to scream, water pours out instead of words. But just before I can pull her back, she disappears below the surface,” he takes a ragged breath, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry I took that from you,” there are tears in Hannibal’s eyes as he places a hand on Will’s knee. Their eyes meet, and for the first time Will sees a crack in Hannibal’s carefully constructed mask of indifference, “I wish I could give it back.”

“So do I,” a heavy silence hangs in the room. Outside the snow is falling, landing on the glass and melting into droplets of frigid water that traverse the pane on their journey downwards.

“Occasionally I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor, on purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again,” Hannibal leans back in his seat, running his palms along his thighs before bundling his robe more tightly around himself. “Someday, perhaps, that cup will come together.”

When Will gets home in the early hours of the morning he goes into the kitchen and smashes every cup and dish in the cupboard on the floor. As he sits in the midst of the broken pieces, Winston picks his way through the shrapnel to rest his head on Will’s lap. With bloody fingers, Will pets his head and watches the sun rise above the forested hills of Wolf Trap through the kitchen window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will’s fingers slip through blood as he crawls towards Abigail. She is helplessly grasping at her neck and making these awful wet gasping noises. Her eyes dart around frantically, locking onto his as Will grips the ragged flesh of her throat in a feeble attempt to stop the waterfall of blood. With each ragged breath and heartbeat more and more seeps between his fingers.

Abigail wraps a hand around his wrist, shaking her head jerkily. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words barley forming between her blood slick lips.

“N-no, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Abigail,” the smell of blood is flooding Will’s nose, thick and sweet. Glancing down, Will sees the pink of his intestines peeking out from between his fingers and he feels a fresh wave of nausea roll over him.

In the corner, the stag huffs out a final shuddering breath before collapsing in a torrent of blood that washes over the two huddled bodies. The blood seeps into Will’s eyes and mouth, blinding him until the only sense he is aware of is the subtle movement of Abigail’s breathing. It is suffocating, blocking out the moonlight that spills through the window.

An ocean of blood, battering their ship, threatening to break them into pieces and drag them into the depths.

Will can feel Abigail slipping away from him again, just like she did last time. He knows Alana is lying broken on the front step, and Jack is probably the source of the pool of blood he saw seeping out from under the pantry door.

In some ways, he always knew it would end here. All roads led here, every choice and action they made was always leading them to this moment; where Will shattered the teacup and was left to pick up the pieces.

This is what you get when you play with the Chesapeake Ripper’s heart. 

But the worst part is not that he’s going to die, or that Abigail and Alana and Jack will probably die here with him. The worst part is that Will isn’t angry at Hannibal for this, not even a little.


	4. Chapter 4

_“O how he loves you, darling boy. Oh how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night.” –Richard Silken_

Will learns to walk again with the assistance of numerous physical therapists and canes that he regards with measured disdain. The doctors treat him with pasted on smiles and cheery tones like he is still a whole person. Deep down, Will knows that when Hannibal gutted him he carved out his innards and took them him with. Even though he can hear his heartbeat and his stomach growl on occasion he knows that inside he is empty. A husk of who he was before all of this.

His new therapist, Doctor Lansbury, tells him that he has to regain the will to live if he wants to get better. But Will doesn’t feel alive, especially as he struggles to right his spine. The severed and badly damaged muscles of his abdominals shuddering in pain, forcing Will to curl in on himself like a leaf battered by the wind.

Zeller and Price bring him flowers the day after he wakes up. Will watches the purple lupines wither and die, their petals littering the side table already cluttered with get well cards.

 _You look like an old man._ Abigail smirks in the edges of his vision as he slowly makes his way through the hospital garden, cane in hand, back hunched.

“Not yet,” Will muses softly to himself, drawing the attention of the nurse trailing behind him. She has the same long dark hair that Abigail does. Did, Will corrects himself, a weight settling in his stomach.

At night, Will runs his hands over the snow white bandages around his middle. Once he calls the night nurse in a panic, convinced that horns are beginning to grow out of his wound.

Some nights Abigail curls around him in the tiny hospital bed, shushing him as Will cries into the pillow. He runs his fingers through her hair and along her neck, surprised when he finds no scar marring her pale flesh. When he wakes up he swears he can still smell her, the faintest whiff of rain and pine lingering on the sheets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Will is discharged from the hospital he sees Abigail everywhere. She is the moving shadows at the edge of his vision, the faces of strangers in hallways and streets. No matter what he does she is just out of reach, whispering words in his ear that he can't bring himself to say, like an angel on his shoulder. Or maybe a devil.

_He hasn’t given us an ending yet._

He dreams fitfully at first. Just flashes of images and snatches of words that leave him sweating and panting in his hospital bed, clutching at his stomach. The first dream he remembers is not quite a nightmare and not quite a run of the mill dream. But then again, when was anything in Will's life average?

Hannibal is standing in his kitchen chopping onions and tossing them into a pan where they pop and sizzle. When Will walks into the room Hannibal greets him with a smile, "I'm glad you're here, Will. Would you care to join me in preparing dinner?" He holds out one of the knives that Will knows later ended up impaled in Jack's hand.

He nods and takes the knife Hannibal is offering. They slice onions and peppers in companionable silence, elbows brushing. A classical piece that Will can't place plays softly from an unseen source. "What are we making?"

"A meal I was very fond of as a young boy. It is a very special dish, one made only in the company of loved ones. I have never had the chance to make it for someone else before." Hannibal pauses, scraping the last of the onions into the pan with a flourish, "Venison heart with fresh sweet onions and baby peppers."

Will drops the last of the peppers into the skillet which steams and lets off a tantalizing aroma. "Do you want me to get the meat out of the fridge?"

"That won't be necessary, Will." Hannibal takes Will's hands and presses the curved knife he used to gut Will into his palm before angling it towards his sternum, "It is right here." Hannibal taps against his chest, placing the tip of his own identical knife in the same spot on Will's chest. Hannibal leans forward until their lips meet and Will feels the curved blade sink into Hannibal's chest with a dreamy slide. Warm blood seeps around Will's fingers, clinging to his skin like honey. "It is yours, Will," Hannibal whispers against Will's lips, pressing his fingers into an identical gaping maw of flesh beneath Will's shirt.

As if by instinct Will removes the blade and slides his fingers into the wound, seeking out the treasure he knows is hidden within. He skims fingers over bone and cartilage and Will can feel Hannibal's entire body thrumming with life. Their fingers wrap around each other’s hearts at the same moment, gasping in unison.

"It was always yours, Will," Hannibal gazes into Will's eyes and begins to pull, sinew and muscle giving way as he pulls Will's heart from his chest cavity with a languid kiss. Will kisses back, reaching up with one hand to caress Hannibal's cheek. Hannibal's heart flutters in his fingers like a small bird. Hannibal nips at his lips as Will pulls the quivering muscle from its nest of ribs.

How strange it is that such a small, delicate thing could fuel and sustain such a man as Hannibal Lecter.

They cradle each other’s beating hearts in their hands, blood staining their clothes and dripping onto the floor. The curved knives have disappeared to some other plane and have been replaced by long cooking blades. Hannibal turns to the cutting board and places Will's heart next to the knife. Will watches Hannibal slice his heart into long strips the color of candied apples he used to buy at the county fair in Greenville. Hannibal guides Will's hands as they prepare Hannibal's heart. When they mix the two muscles together they become indecipherable.

They simmer with the vegetables while Will sets the table for two. Hannibal brings out the steaming plates filled with their hearts and topped with the brilliantly colored peppers and onions. He presses a kiss to Will's forehead before taking his place at the head of the table. Though Will can see Hannibal carefully setting his cloth napkin on his lap, Will feels the man's presence behind him, just looming over him. A long shadow is cast from behind Will and over the table and his food. It has horns that protrude from its head and it places a long fingered hand on his shoulder. The stag with Hannibal's voice leans down, lips brushing Will's ear to whisper something.

Will is jerked awake by the coppery taste of blood. He has chewed through the side of his tongue in his sleep, leaving it ragged and raw. Though he squeezes his eyes shut, the dream is gone and he can feel his steady heartbeat thumping away in his chest.

Later he thinks that it should have felt empty, not having a heart. But it only left a radiating feeling of warmth that made him reluctant to remove his hand from Hannibal's body. Part of him wanted to climb inside him and live there ensconced in the wet warmth and safety of Hannibal forever. Lying here in the hospital with a heart in his chest he feels incredibly empty.

Hannibal's words drift to him between the monitor beeps, "Beautiful boy, I think I shall eat your heart." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wind whips through Will’s hair as he ties off the rigging. The last strains of sunlight reflect off the Atlantic, glittering and rolling as his tiny boat sluices through the waves, pushed onward by the crisp gusts of salty air. A gull lazily rides an updraft above him, under feathers ruffling softly.

Will leans against the tiller, keeping the sailboat on course. The familiar smell of the ocean fills his nostrils, the rocking of the waves lulling him into calmness the same way a mother’s heartbeat soothes an infant.

There are stories of the sea being a cruel mistress, dragging sailors to their deaths in her murky depth. Will never cared for those stories much. To him, the sea is a living thing, ever changing. It is a constantly moving and yet static entity in his mind.

Above, the stars are beginning to shine, the sun finally disappearing below the waves in a burst of color. Too much color, shocking color, the color that leaps out of black when lightning strikes at night.

Orion shimmers above the horizon; the son of Poseidon, Hannibal had once told Will. Jupiter is just above it, brighter than it will be for years. Looking up, Will can’t help but wonder if, wherever Hannibal is, he has looked at those same stars recently. If Hannibal looked up and saw Jupiter shining more brightly than it ever will again in their lifetimes.

The gull that has accompanied Will for the better part of his journey, adjusts its wings and comes to perch on the railing of the boat. It tucks its wings in and nestles its head into the down fluff on its chest.

Abigail closes her eyes, ocean spray wetting her ruddy cheeks. She looks more alive than she ever did in life. There is color in her cheeks, and her shoulders don’t curve inward as if she is trying to hide. Her ever present scarf is gone, as is the ugly scar that marred the pale column of her throat.

Will smiles as she reaches out to run her fingers through the snow white feathers of the gull. She turns her head to smile at him, soft and sweet. Will reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder, but the boat pitches on a wave and she vanishes into the water that splashes onto the deck.

Jupiter and Orion gaze down on him and Will is sure that his stars and Hannibal’s stars have always been the same, he just never took the time to look up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Will slips in and out of consciousness, watching Hannibal assemble the bone saw, he sees the room slip and twist around him like oil on water. Half formed thoughts migrate through his drug muddled brain.

If Will could rewrite the past it would go like this; there is no blood, no murders, no encephalitis. 

Instead there is soft mid-morning sun streaming through long windows, pooling on the sheets of Hannibal’s bed. The man himself is lying shirtless with the covers bunched around his waist. Will leans against the door frame, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He isn’t sure how long he stands there, just soaking in the sight of the slumbering beast before Hannibal’s eyes slowly open to meet his.

“Come back to bed, Will,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep, his accent more pronounced. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t climb into the bed and fit himself against Hannibal’s chest like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

The picture is complete.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They bind Will and Hannibal to what looks like some kind of high tech hand cart. It’s a bit too similar to the cart he was wheeled around in at the BSHCI for Will’s liking. Hannibal is oddly chipper, smiling at their captors and occasionally inquiring as to how Will’s head feels. He just stares at Hannibal, his face a blank and void slate.

“There are the tusks to consider if you want to maintain the integrity of your abdomen. Tusked beasts instinctively disembowel. Tell me, Mr. Graham, how did it feel to hold your quivering innards in your hands while the Hobbs girl bled out next to you?” Mason’s eyes glint and the hole where his mouth was twists into a mockery of a smile. “Have you accepted Jesus, Mr. Graham? Did you see God when the EMT’s restarted your heart and hooked you up to a shit bag?”

Will just stares forward, unwilling to grant Mason the courtesy of a response, verbal or emotional.

There is a constant throbbing coming from his temple, and the dried blood on his face is beginning to flake and itch. He drifts in and out of consciousness, the cocktail of drugs used to sedate them on their way over the Atlantic slowly making its way out of his system.

By the time dinner is ready he is more lucid. Some burly goons have manhandled him into a suit and wheeled him to the table. His wounds have been professionally dressed, though he can feel blood soaking through the bandage on his forehead again.

They free one of Hannibal’s hands so he can eat, but leave Will restrained. His stomach growls and twists while Mason and Hannibal talk about him like he’s not even there. He’s not even really paying any real attention to their conversation. Something about eating a penis? The words float in like wind across an open field, brushing against his ears but leaving no real impressions. There is only one thing that seems to linger long enough to be processed.

“You’re going to eat him,” Will repeats in disbelief, “with my face?”

At this point he’s not afraid, the time for fear has long past. Now Will is just pissed. How the hell did he end up here, listening to Hannibal ask what Mason will do once they are both dead and he finally got what he wanted?

“You could wreck some foster homes and torment more children,” Will mutters mostly to himself.

From there the conversation gets more diluted and philosophical. He has no interest in Mason’s sadistic metaphors and pajama party plentitudes.

When Cordell bends down to rub the overly rose scented lotion on Will’s cheek he makes a snap decision. Fed up with sitting passively as they discuss him like a child, he darts forward, sinking his teeth into the fleshy part of Cordell’s cheek. The coppery taste of blood seeps between his lips as Will jerks back, tearing the mouthful from the man’s face.

Cordell lets out a gurgling growl, shoving Will away from him. He stumbles backwards and brings a hand up to staunch the bleeding, his formerly immaculate white apron stained red.

Will disdainfully spits the ragged piece of flesh onto his empty plate, a smear of blood coloring the bone china. He turns to catch Hannibal’s eye. Will imagines what he must look like to make Hannibal genuinely smile. In his wine glass, Will can see his upside-down reflection, his lips stained red with blood like a garish lipstick.

Mason’s eyes widen as Cordell stumbles to the kitchen, blood soaking through his clutching fingers, “Well, no pajama party for you, Mr. Graham.”

Once Mason has finished his meal, more goons come in and wheel him and Hannibal out of the dining room, leaving Will alone. His breathing echoes off of the vaulted ceilings, but otherwise the room is silent.

Alana comes in and for a moment Will is surprised to see her there. But the initial shock wears off when it becomes apparent that like him, Alana has changed. Neither of them is the person they were when they went into Hannibal’s kitchen so long ago. They have adapted, evolved, become new people with claws beneath their placid exteriors.

If Hannibal Lecter is the wolf in sheep’s clothing, Will Graham is the swan hiding razor sharp teeth and rapidly paddling webbed feet beneath the slumbering surface of the lake. And now, it’s time for Will to stretch his wings and test his teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After they catch Hannibal, Will becomes a national figure again. This time, not because he is accused of murder. There are interviews, all of which he harshly declines, and editorials written about him. 

He repeatedly refuses to testify against Hannibal. He doesn't want to be involved. Freddie Lounds runs a story suspecting that Will is trying to invoke spousal testimonial privileges.

Alana and Jack want to know why Hannibal surrendered.

Everyone wants to know.

Will just shrugs and buries himself in paperwork and whiskey.

At home he finds a coat on his coat rack that wasn't there before. There are blood stains on the cuffs and the lining has a bespoke tag on it that lists Hannibal Lecter as the owner. He assumes that Hannibal must have left it while he was unconscious. In a moment of impulse Will presses his nose to the fabric and breathes in. He isn't sure if he can actually smell the scent of expensive aftershave that he associates with Hannibal, or if he's just imagining it.

Will doesn't shave, he sleeps on the pullout couch, and spends most of his days sitting on the floor drinking, surrounded by dogs. Dust collects in his room and on all the surfaces of his house. He forgets to pay the electricity bill and they shut off his power. Will goes out for drinks with Price and Zeller once but it's not the same, none of them push to do it again.

Alana and Margot are having a baby. He wants to say jealousy is the snake that's curling in his stomach, but jealousy of what he isn't sure.

After three months he formally resigns from Quantico, handing his teaching position over to a younger, more likable teacher who hands out A's left and right. He starts fixing boat motors after he finally runs out of whiskey and self-pity. Motors are easy; find what's broken, replace the part. Problem, solution. No thinking required. A predictable problem with a predictable outcome.

Will receives a letter from a woman claiming to be his mother. She says she has missed him for so long but never knew where to write and now wants to meet.

He crumples up the letter and lets the dogs out for a run, whiskey in hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will testifies as a key witness in the trial against Hannibal. All of his words are pre-prepared by Jack and the prosecution’s lawyers. He only does it as a final favor to the FBI before moving to Bar Harbor, Maine.

In court Hannibal is dressed in a white jumpsuit and handcuffed to the table; somehow he still manages to look imposing and distinguished. In the last 5 months his hair has grown out and hangs in his face occasionally. For a man facing over 50 counts of murder, 36 counts of desecration of a human body, kidnapping charges, and interstate flight, he is as calm and collected as ever.

When one of the lawyers asks if he and Hannibal were ever romantically or sexually involved Will ducks his head, unwilling to meet Hannibal’s penetrating gaze.

“No.”

It feels like a lie.

Unsurprisingly, he manages to dodge the death penalty on an insanity plea that Will knows Hannibal himself must disagree with. He gets 45 life sentences at the BSHCI under the care of Alana Bloom. The state takes possession of his house until he dies and they can sell off his assets, or until Hannibal decides to give it to someone.

As Will leaves the courtroom he passes by Hannibal, eyes fixed on the floor. In an instant Hannibal’s hand darts out and seizes Will’s, straining against his bonds. “I do hope you’ll come and visit,” Will’s breath catches in his throat, heart stopping as their eyes connect. “It gets terribly boring in prison.” There is something in his eyes that Will can’t identify.

The courtroom is booming as a security guard tears Will back from Hannibal, another yanking Hannibal out of his seat. The world seems to move in a haze as Hannibal is shoved towards the door that leads to the holding cells. Bodies flood around Will, jostling him back and forth like a tree in a wind storm, but their eyes never leave each other’s. Everything is silent as Hannibal’s lips curve into a genuine smile that Will has only seen a few other times; when he killed Randal Tier, when he brought him long pig, when they sat in front of the Botticelli. It takes all Will has to turn away just as Hannibal is roughly escorted from the courtroom, instead turning his eyes to the flashing cameras of the press outside, clambering over each other to get a shot of the man who caught Hannibal the Cannibal.

He should feel triumphant, knowing he will never have to see Hannibal again. He feels empty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months later Buster swallows a bottle cap. Molly Foster is sitting in the waiting room at the vet’s office when Will takes him in to get his stomach pumped. She has bright eyes and a smile that makes her eyes crinkle at the edges. Her dogs, Skipper and Harley, are in for their rabies shot and they take to Buster immediately. Molly makes Will laugh for the first time in what feels like years.

When he gets up to leave she grabs his arm and hands him a business card, “If you want to get dinner or something sometime.” She smiles and grabs her coat while Will runs his fingers over the edge of the stiff paper. Molly is an architect that works for some big-name firm that specializes in apartment complexes.

A week later they have dinner at an old diner that’s been around since the 50’s. Molly dislikes tomato on her burgers, and pours ketchup all over her fries instead of dipping them into a little puddle like Will does. He learns that she has a son named Walter who is 12 years old, and doesn’t own a TV. She leaves her coat at the restaurant and they have to drive back to get it. By the time they arrive at her house it has begun to rain. Will walks her to the door and is turning to leave when she grips the lapels of his coat, a gift from Hannibal, and presses a firm kiss to his lips. “Good night, Will,” she whispers conspiratorially, a playful glint in her eye. Molly heads inside, leaving Will on the front step to stare blankly at the screen door as it shudders closed behind her. He isn’t sure how long he stands there, probably looking like an idiot, but by the time he gets back to the car his hair is stuck to his forehead and the coat is soaked.

They see each other once or twice a week for 4 months before Will moves in. He helps Walter with his math homework and picks him up from school. It feels good to fall into a life that doesn’t include grisly murders, or therapy fraught with cryptic words and intentions. He drinks less and smiles more.

It's always dark when they fuck. They only ever do it when Walter is at a sleepover or a movie with friends.

Will presses his face into the space between Molly’s shoulder blades, inhaling the smell of her shampoo while he thrusts into her. She is panting, fingers tangled in the sheets as they move. One of the dogs whines at the door. Molly laughs between moans, and tosses a pillow at the door, effectively silencing Harley.

Will huffs out a chuckle, feeling the impending approach of his orgasm. She twists so they are facing and their lips meet hastily. He closes his eyes, loosing himself in the feeling, threading his fingers through Molly’s hair. She reaches up to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes, her thumb running over the long scar on his forehead. Will bites his lips as he comes, a moan ripped from his throat before he can completely stifle it. “Hannib-”

It’s too late. He feels Molly go rigid beneath him, her breath catching in her throat. His blood runs cold, the impact of what he just said hitting him like a ton of bricks. Will pulls out and climbs off the bed, “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Molly.” His voice is ragged as he ties off the condom and drops it into the trash can. With unsteady legs he heads for the bathroom, snagging his underwear off of the floor.

“Will-,” she starts, pushing herself upright and following him. Will is perched on the edge of the bathtub, head in his hands. Molly wraps a bathrobe around herself before sitting next to him. “It’s okay, Will.”

He shakes his head, unwilling to look up at her, “It’s not okay. Don’t you see? I thought I was done with all of this,” he waves a hand, gesturing to something Molly can’t see but understands well enough, “All this shit.”

She places a hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles, “I know we don’t talk about this, but it’s clearly an issue for you. Do you want to talk about it?”

They both know Hannibal is the unwanted specter that haunts their lives. It is a mutually understood agreement to aggressively never talk about him, even when there are times that he seems to permeate the air around them, choking the breath from their lungs and drowning them in unspoken words.

Molly hadn’t known at first. She knew there had been something that had left Will so withdrawn and scarred, mentally and physically, but was never privy to what had actually happened. It wasn’t until Walter had begged to see **_Bonne Appetite_** , the new blockbuster about the Chesapeake Ripper, and Will had locked himself in their room, that she had begun to put the pieces together.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” Will mutters. He scrubs a hand through his hair, “He’s hundreds of miles away but it’s like he’s always here with us. I can’t get rid of him.”

Molly licks her lips and asks the question that has been a splinter in her brain since she realized that her Will Graham was _that_ Will Graham, “Was any of it true, what they said in the papers about you two?”

Will’s laugh is hollow and forced, “In a way, I guess. We were never together, but we were never separate. It’s hard to describe.” He stands, wrapping his hands around himself, “I don’t know that he’s ever going to go away, Mol.”

“Then we deal with him, day by day,” she follows Will into their bedroom. He climbs beneath the covers, curling in on himself. Molly slips in behind him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pulling him towards her until she is spooning him from behind. It’s a bit awkward because he is a good five inches taller than she is, but he allows is.

The room is filled with a thick silence that hangs in the air like dust, “Do you miss him?” Molly whispers into the dark, afraid of his answer.

“Go to sleep, Molly.” Will mumbles, pressing his face deeper into the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alana watches Hannibal from her monitor, picking idly at her nails. He typically spends his days sitting on his bed, his legs folded, hands clasped, and head tipped back against the wall with his eyes shut. The only time he gets up is to draw, eat, piss, or shower. Every other week he writes letters and drops them into the tray before returning to lotus position. Without fail, the letters are always addressed to Will.

They don’t contain much of interest. He inquires as to how large the scar on Will’s forehead is, if he still wakes shaking and sweating in the middle of the night.

On occasion Hannibal will request that money be donated to different organizations in his name; the Baltimore symphony, the Virginia Opera, the Smithsonian. Most of them decline the money, or simply put him down as an anonymous donor. Nobody wants to sit in a seat at the philharmonic with Hannibal Lecter’s name pressed into the golden plaque on the back.

There is a near constant stream of interview requests from newspapers to graduate students to rabid fans. He refuses all of them with a dismissive air, folding his hands behind his back with a toothy grin.

Somehow one of the orderlies accidentally lets a newspaper article announcing Will’s departure from the FBI slip into the stack of Hannibal’s daily reading. Since the trial Hannibal has not been allowed a word of information regarding Will or his whereabouts. Though Alana does deliver each letter, Will never responds. She assumes he is likely throwing them out, or at least she hopes that’s what he is doing with them.

When she has Morgan, Hannibal offers her his congratulations, and reminds her of his promise with a drawing of her and Margot cradling their child, each with halos made of eels encircling their heads.

Hannibal is not a bad patient in any sense of the word. He is courteous and never rude, though he abhors any sort of probing into his psyche. Because of this Alana offers him some small concessions, in hopes that perhaps he will be open to some sort of evaluation someday. He is nothing short of grateful when she allows him his philosophy books and poetry.

He seems to be faring well mentally, despite being holed up in the BSHCI, only able to see the rising and setting of the sun and moon through his skylight. Maybe he gets too much special treatment with the fancy cell and skylight, but maybe Alana is planning for an unpleasant future.

Hannibal continues to write letters to Will. Will continues to ignore them.

Later, Alana will learn that Molly is shredding them at work, unwilling to lose her husband to that world of blood and monsters again. It’s only when he comes home early while she is at work that he finds one waiting for him in the mailbox along with a copy of National Geographic and their heating bill. He hides it in his underwear drawer, only daring to read it in the middle of the night, long after Molly and Walter are asleep.

 _It's dark_ _on the other side and madness is waiting_

About a year after his arrest, new hospital regulations from the state are put in place requiring all inmates to go through extensive physicals every six months. Hannibal is restrained and gets a rather intimidating mask as the hospital physician processes him again.

The only things of note they find are bloody half moon scabs on his palms where he has been digging his nails into the flesh, and a good sized portion of hair that has been ripped out at the back of his hairline. To combat this, they put Hannibal in a straitjacket for two months to break the palm and nail habit, then they shave his head for another six months to stop the hair pulling.

It is strange to see Hannibal Lecter, the man who once commanded a room, bound and hairless in his cell, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar as he loses himself inside his own mind.


	5. Chapter 5

They find the house twenty-two hours after Hannibal escapes. It's nestled on top of a bluff a few minutes north of Calvert Cliffs State Park in Delaware. Crawford, Price, and Zeller arrive with the rest of the agents about an hour and a half after the local authorities call it in.

Dolarhyde's body is splayed in a pool of dried blood on the back porch, eyes pecked out by the local wildlife. There is no sign of Hannibal or Will.

Price takes prints from an axe found near the edge of the property, and a knife found near the body. They catalog blood sprays and injuries on the corpse, as well as the contents of the house. A sick part of Zeller is happy to find that the only food in the house is cheap gas station snack food, a departure from Hannibal's usual fare.

They fill evidence bags with wine glasses and the contents of the pantry. Each room is combed and cataloged. When they get into the bedroom none of them talk about the rumpled sheets that smell of sex that they carefully fold and seal into evidence bags. They later determine that only Will Graham’s semen is present on the bedspread, but Hannibal’s blood is all over the patio, along with plenty of Will’s and Dolarhyde’s.

They comb the beach below the house, only turning up shreds of fabric and a single leather dress shoe. The waves lap against the cliffside, erasing any evidence they might have found.

The next day they develop the film on Dolarhyde's camera that was left running. Some of the cells were exposed but they get a fairly good idea of what happened inside the house. Had the camera been placed a few inches to the left, they would have been able to see onto the back porch, but instead they see Dolarhyde rip his knife up through Will’s lip and cheek and then throw him out of the frame, before being followed by a heavily bleeding Hannibal.

None of them want to acknowledge the elephant in the room. No one will say what they are all thinking, and hoping isn't what happened. That Will and Hannibal are still alive, out there, somewhere.

Three days later the FBI declares Will Graham a national hero who died in the line of duty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crisp sea air ruffles Will’s hair as he climbs up to the deck. Hannibal is at the ship’s wheel, knitted cap pulled haphazardly over his hair, eyes closed with a small smile on his lips.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, watching Hannibal revel in his newfound freedom after years of being locked away in the basement of the BSHCI. Will remembers the first few days after he was released. He’d sat on his porch all night, just watching the sun rise and set because he could. For the first month he had slept with the window open even though it was freezing and he frequently woke up with snow on the floor. It’d been nice to feel something for a change though. In the prison the temperature had been regulated at 70 degrees all year long. He had missed the cold.

Undoubtedly Hannibal had missed the wind and fresh air in much the same way Will had. He notes that Hannibal has not shaved in almost a week, the beginnings of a pale beard clearly visible on his jaw. Hannibal reaches up to simply place a hand on his lips, breathing in another lungful of salty sea air.

Freedom suits Hannibal in much the same way sunlight suits a house cat. They’re too proud to admit that they enjoy it as much as they do.

Will eventually scrapes his foot against the deck to let his presence be known as he approaches the hull. “It’s nice out here,” he comments, shooting Hannibal as much of a smile as he can with fourteen stitches in his cheek.

The Dragon has left them with some pretty impressive injuries that would no doubt scar. Hannibal had passed out twice while Will dug around in his side, looking for shrapnel, and then another time when Will stitched Hannibal back up with dental floss. The long clean cut along Will’s cheek had made it difficult to eat, the wound slicing through the corner of his mouth and reaching until where the blade had hit the bone of his jaw. It was only yesterday that he had been able to handle anything other than water and oatmeal without bleeding.

“It’s lovely,” Hannibal muses, eyes still closed. It occurs to Will that Hannibal looks beautiful like this, even though he is dressed in an oversized sweater that probably belonged to the abusive asshole who owned the boat before they tipped him over the bow with a brand new pair of cinderblock shoes.

Will hums his agreement, leaning against the railing, arms crossed and fingers dangling. A few stray drops of ocean water jump up to patter against his face and the deck, the boat rocking up and down. “You know, the last time I was on the ocean I was sailing to Europe to find you.”

“But I imagine this is not the first time you have been on board a boat since Europe?” Hannibal paces over to stand beside Will, hands hidden in the massive sleeves of the ratty blue sweater.

Will shakes his head, “No, I fixed motors for a while in Maine. It’s funny,” he chuckles, looking back at Hannibal. “I keep going back to boat motors. I guess it’s a predisposition, like you and cooking.”

The sky is tinted purple with clouds beginning to form above. Slowly, the patter of raindrops begins to fill their ears. “We should pull in the sail,” Will turns to the boom, digging out the winch from his toolbox. Hannibal begins untying the rigging as the wind whips around them, jerking the sail back and forth.

“Will!” Hannibal shouts over the gale as the boom suddenly swings around, catching him squarely in the stomach and knocking him flat on his back. Will scrabbles at the wet deck helplessly as he slides towards the side of the boat. In an instant Hannibal is there gripping his legs and pulling Will back from the gunwale and into the cabin.

He lies there, staring up at the stars for a moment, back flat on the damp floor. “Thanks,” Will manages after a moment.

“I’m not losing you to an early spring storm, Will,” Hannibal smirks, pulling Will to his feet.

That night they share one small bed, moth eaten wool blankets wrapped around them, while the little boat is tossed on the churning ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The funeral is on a cold Tuesday morning, three weeks after Will and Hannibal disappear. The director of the FBI grants Will Graham a posthumous badge and a plot in Arlington.

In place of a body Molly decides to bury a casket filled with mementos. A dog leash, pictures from their wedding, Walter’s spelling bee trophy. Jack contributes an expensive bottle of whiskey and a pitying look towards Molly and Walter. Price and Zeller add a framed picture of the two of them along with Beverly and Will smiling at a bar.

Walter is dressed in his Sunday best, fists clenched at his sides as the guests file into their seats.

The funeral was delayed an extra day because the frozen February ground was too difficult to dig up. "Almost like the ground don't want 'im," one of the groundskeepers joked while stabbing his shovel into the solid earth again and again.

Reba McClaine shows up, tapping her cane against the snow covered paths.

It's oddly silent, save for the occasional sounds of crying coming from other parts of the cemetery. In school last year, Walter learned that there is an average of 30 funerals every day at Arlington. It feels like much more than that. There is a seemingly endless stream of quiet mourners filing through the row of headstones.

Security escorts Freddie Lounds away from where she is taking pictures. It is a private event.

Jack says a few stock words about how Will saved lives and Molly glares daggers at him. After the funeral he tries to talk to her but she turns her back on him, she has no time for the man that led her husband to his death. 

They fold the flag on Will's casket and hand it to Molly. Walter is shaking as they lower the box full of pictures and memories into the frozen hole.

Will's friends and coworkers start to leave. Their neighbor offers to bring over a casserole later that day. Price is crying somewhere in the distance, but Molly just watches the mahogany coffin disappear from view.

She tosses a handful of earth onto the casket. After a moment’s pause she slips her wedding band off her finger and drops it into the grave. Molly turns, grips Walter's hand, and walks away.

Molly Graham is dead. Long live Molly Foster.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Living with Hannibal turns out to be an education that Will never expected.

They sail from the house on the cliff to Barbados, tending to each other’s wounds with what little medical supplies are on board. He knew Hannibal was meticulous, but there are little quirks that he becomes privy to over the first few months they are on the run.

The biggest surprise Will encounters is that Hannibal smokes. Not often, just when he is really upset or stressed. When Will heads out to grab more bandages and food from the thrift store down the street from their motel, Hannibal requests a pack of cigarettes. He almost looks bashful, if that’s even possible for Hannibal.

“Uh, sure, Hannibal,” Will nods, a bit dumbstruck. Of all the guilty pleasures he thought Hannibal had, smoking was not one that had ever crossed his mind. He always assumed Hannibal was a ‘my body is a temple’ kind of guys.

He grabs a reasonably priced pack, knowing that Hannibal would hate the cheapest ones, and also not wanting to drop $15 on cigarettes. Will also snags a box of condoms, paying the cashier and shoving the bag into the passenger seat before he loses the nerve to make that kind of assumption.

When he unlocks the door to the motel Hannibal is lying on his bed, eyes closed and hands folded on his chest. Will tosses the cigarettes onto Hannibal’s chest, the condom box burning a hole through his coat pocket. “Thank you, Will,” he peels the plastic off the box and heads for their balcony. It’s beyond strange to see Hannibal Lecter dressed in Walmart jeans and a t-shirt, leaning on the railing of the balcony of an hourly motel, watching the sun set over the dumpsters and air-conditioning units of the next door McDonalds.

He produces a lighter from God knows where, and Will watches Hannibal smoke from his bed, legs folded beneath him. His fingers trace the edge of the box in his pocket. When he was 14, Will found a copy of Playboy jammed between the couch cushions in a shitty motel in Arkansas. He had kept it until the pages stuck together and he could recall the women inside it with near photographic precision. The same forbidden thrill buzzes through his veins watching Hannibal smoke the filter before flicking it away and lighting another.

“Would you care to join me?” Hannibal asks after a minute, turning to offer a cigarette identical to the one dangling from his lips to Will.

Will shakes his head, sheds his coat, and meanders over to where Hannibal is standing. The night air is hot and wet, clinging to their clothes. The cool breeze from the sea ruffles his hair, it’s gotten long again.

They stand in silence for a few minutes, the distant wailing of a police siren the only interruption. “You once said that you didn’t know if you could save yourself. Do you still feel that you need to be saved, Will?”

“Do you still plan to eat me, Doctor Lecter,” Will raises an eyebrow as Hannibal exhales a long stream of smoke. “Or have your cravings been satisfied?”

They both knows what is bubbling beneath the surface of their every interaction. Both of them know that the only way they will ever be separated is by death, be it by the hand of God, Jack Crawford, or their own. How silly, Will thinks, that he once thought a jail cell could keep them apart.

Hannibal stubs out his cigarette on the railing and turns to face him. His cheeks are ruddy with the heat, and his jaw is stubbled, a departure from his usual clean faced look, “My appetite for you could never be truly satiated. But I believe I have found other ways to feed my hunger, dear Will.” Hannibal leans towards him and Will knows what is about to happen and he knows that it should scare him after everything Hannibal has done. But instead he leans forward.

And then it seems they are kissing.

The world does not stop, the air does not leave the room, God does not rain fire down upon them. They come together the same way they always have; rough and tender at the same time. A hand grips Will’s waist while he tangles his fingers in dirty blonde hair.

Beneath the smoke Hannibal tastes like wine and summer nights and Will is drunk on him. Hannibal wraps his arms around Will, pulling him close and anchoring him in the moment. For the first time in years Will feels truly safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freddie Lounds is arrested twice for breaking and entering on Hannibal Lecter’s property in the year after he disappears. She never takes anything, but pictures of his plastic draped living room and dining table ignite the internet within hours of being posted.

The most popular shots are of the bedroom with the imposing king sized bed that touts royal blue sheets and a multitude of down pillows. Nobody ever replaced the window that Alana Bloom was shoved out of, bits of glass still lay neglected in the imported rug. A sheet of black plastic flutters in the breeze, doing a poor job of covering the gaping Alana shaped hole in the front window.

People have already seen a thousand shots of Hannibal’s kitchen and basement, along with a heathly number of dining room pictures. Everybody knows Hannibal the Cannibal, but they are still foaming at the mouth to know Hannibal Lecter; psychiatrist and Baltimore elite.

There is just something intriguing about seeing his walk in closet and mud room, the contents of his bedside drawer; reading glasses, a stack of books in Lithuanian, and a half empty box of condoms, if anyone was wondering.

Crawford gives her shit when she uploads photos of the contents of the guest bedroom’s closet. His main interest is the small collection of sweaters, button downs, and pants that are much too small to ever have fit Hannibal. Though they are all designer with the tags still attached, they would look right at home in Will’s closet in Wolf Trap.

Speculation runs wild about why Hannibal Lecter had another man’s clothes stowed away in his guest bedroom. A dozen or so young men come forward, claiming to have been in a relationship with the infamous cannibal. Everyone knows they’re just desperate vies for celebrity status. A chance to hitch their star on a rollercoater of publicity that only seems to go up with each passing year, as psychiatists and criminologists try to pick apart what went so wrong as to create such a beast.

_I wanted to run away with him._

Freddie and Jack both know the truth. They have an unspoken agreement to not discuss it aloud, instead opting to communicate via thinly veiled euphemisms and statements to the press, in Jack’s case, and biting articles on Freddie’s side.

Two years after Hannibal is declared dead Freddie publishes a second book. _Dinner and A Murder; Love Between Psychopaths._ It is the New York Times Bestseller for 34 weeks straight. The movie rights sell almost instantly, and production begins a few months after, on location in Italy.

She moves out of her shitty apartment in Baltimore, opting for a penthouse suite in downtown DC that overlooks the Potomac. Wealth suits her well in the form of expensive furs and wine. Freddie Lounds became rich off of Hannibal Lecter’s crimes and now she lives lavishly like he once did. The irony is not lost on her.

A letter arrives in her mailbox along with dozens of envelopes of fanmail and her monthly check from the publisher. Her name is scrawled in overly elaborate script on the front, the back sealed with a simple dollop of wax.

Inside is a matte white card with simply the words “Beautifully written” penned on the creamy paper.

A small smile plays across Freddie’s lips. She knows how to take a compliment from Hannibal the Cannibal when it is offered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The high ceilings echo the sounds of the milling and chatting crowd around the lobby of the opera house. Hannibal adjusts his bowtie, lifting his chin to do so. Will tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, the new fabric feeling starchy and foreign on his skin.

“Would you like something to drink?” Hannibal inquires, gesturing to one of the many waiters navigating through the sea of suits and heels with a glistening tray of champagne. Will nods, his mouth gone dry. He feels so out of place in this room filled with Colombia’s upper class. If only he had brought his glasses, then maybe he could hide from the prying gaze of those curious to see the elusive husband of the infamous Dr. Bernard. Will grips the champagne flute tightly, hoping that his hands aren’t shaking too badly.

A woman with bleached white teeth and side swept bangs floats towards them, “You must be Señor Bernard,” she extends a bejeweled hand which Will kisses respectfully. “I am Paola Días, I work in antiquities, down the hall from your husband.”

“Please, call me Simon,” Will replies tersely, lips stretched into a fake smile.

She ignores him with a wave of her hand and continues, “You are quite a lucky man, Señor Bernard. Your husband is so popular with the students that volunteer at the museum. His exhibits are the most popular ones we have had in years! And he is so very handsome, all the ladies are jealous.” Paola offers him a conspiratorial smile, and a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Dr. Bernard is a very popular man in Santa Marta these days. He offered to throw a dinner party for all the museum curators later this month.”

“Lucas does enjoy his dinner parties,” Will chuckles, finishing off the rest of his champagne and slipping Hannibal a sideways glance. Hannibal’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly as he takes the empty glass from Will.

“Simon does his best to tolerate me,” Hannibal says with immeasurable fondness, resting a possessive hand on Will’s back just above the bones of his hips. He tenses at first, still not used to even small displays of affection, before relaxing into the touch and leaning more heavily into Hannibal’s side.

A man with dark slicked back hair and a thin moustache separates from the crowd to lay a hand on Paola’s waist, “Didn’t miss me too much, did you, darling?” He presses a kiss to her cheek before turning to Hannibal and Will, “I’m Francisco Días. Dr. Bernard I presume,” he takes Hannibal’s hand in a firm shake before turning to look down his nose at Will, “and you are?”

Will can feel the disdain rolling off Francisco in waves. He raises his chin to look the taller man in the eye before extending his hand, “Simon Bernard, Lucas’ husband.”

To his credit, Francisco’s expression does not waver from his expression of feigned interest and slight annoyance, “Charming,” he drawls like the word has offended him. “What is it you do?”

“I boat fix motors at the marina,” Will can feel Hannibal’s hand pressing tighter into his side as Francisco folds his arms and huffs out a laugh.

“How,” Paola shoots Will an apologetic look as her husband continues, “quaint.”

Hannibal looks like he is about to pounce on Francisco and rip his throat out. At least Will can tell that’s what is boiling behind Hannibal’s charming smile. As he opens his mouth to shoot back some choice words the lights in the lobby flicker, signaling the end of intermission.

“Perhaps we will see you after the show,” Paola jumps in, tugging Francisco towards the great gilded doors.

Hannibal relaxes his grip on Will’s hips, “Yes, perhaps.”

He is tense through the rest of the Opera. Will squeezes Hannibal’s hand and offers a weak smile every now and then, but it does nothing to combat the dark clouds forming over them. It had been a promising night.

Will is silent on the ride home, twisting the end of his tie back and forth between his fingers. When they get home he sheds his coat on their huge feather bed before heading towards the bathroom. He ignores Plato, the shaggy border collie’s attempts to nip at Will’s heels until he breaks down and pets him, leaving the dog whining and scratching at the door.

Hannibal lingers in the doorway to their bedroom, watching as steam begins to roll out from beneath the door. Plato wanders towards him, looking for any scrap of attention he might throw his way. Typically, their interactions are limited to half-hearted pats on the head and the occasional meat trimmings being dropped before the opportunistic dog. Their relationship is one of mutual benefit, but not usually affection. Plato has eaten enough of Hannibal’s dress shoes that would have resulted in immediate death, had Will not apologized so profusely each time. Now, Plato simply turns to Hannibal when Will is gone fixing motors late into the night, or when he is preparing meals. At night he curls up by Will’s feet or the foot of the bed, guarding them like a furry sentry.

With a sigh, Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing under the dog’s chin. His tail thumps against the comforter happily, unaware of the tension bleeding out of Hannibal, prompted by Will’s obvious discomfort at the opera following their interaction with Francisco.

Minutes turn into half an hour before Hannibal abandons Plato with a scratch behind the ears, and eases the bathroom door open. The mirror and the shower doors are fogged and the air is thick with warm steam that makes Hannibal’s hair cling to his forehead.

“Will?” He toes off his shoes and paces to the shower, calling his husband’s name softly. When there is no response, he wipes a hand over the glass, clearing the condensation enough to see Will sitting beneath the shower spray, white shirt soaked and nearly transparent. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his nose pressed to the wet skin of his forearm. Will’s curls are plastered to his head, and his fingers and toes are shriveled like prunes. The water clings to his beard and hair in tiny droplets. His skin has turned an even hue of pink under the heat of the water.

Hannibal pushes the sliding door open, the soft clang of metal getting Will attention and pulling him from the depths of his own mind. “Hi,” Will manages quietly, hugging his knees to his chest.

“May I join you?” Hannibal asks, draping his suit jacket on the back of the door. Will shifts to one side and nods. The water plasters Hannibal’s shirt to his chest as he slides down the wall to sit beside Will.

He makes no move to touch Will, just sits beneath the spray, ruining a dress shirt that probably costs as much as Will’s whole wardrobe back in Wolf Trap. After a moment, Will leans towards him, resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever are you apologizing for, Will?” Hannibal wraps an arm around Will’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He pushes a lock of damp hair away from Will’s eyes, the water sluicing down his forehead.

“I know I’m not exactly a trophy husband or the kind of person people expect you to be married to, but-”

Hannibal silences him with a stern look, “What others may expect is of no consequence to me, Will. When did the thoughts and expectations of others begin to carry merit in your mind? I have made my decision, Will, regardless of what others may think. I have chosen you, and you have chosen me.” Will’s stomach twists into knots at Hannibal’s words, “Just because we are not married under our real names, do not think that I have not married myself to you a thousand times over, in every instance of our existences. In every world I have chosen you again and again, in each lifetime I choose you.” He pauses for a moment before continuing with a shaky breath, pressing his nose into Will’s damp temples, “Even in the ones where you do not chose me, William.”

They sit in silence, Hannibal’s words suspended on the slowly dissipating steam as the water grows cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alana and Margot settle in a suburb of Toronto. The home could more accurately be titled a mansion, nestled at the edge of Lake Ontario, with great pine trees that act as a buffer against the breeze that blows in over the lake at night.

Morgan is enrolled in a bilingual school and enjoys running up and down the winding hallways and hiding from his mothers in the seemingly endless rooms. Margot and Alana open a non-profit therapeutic riding ranch on a large stretch of land that overlooks the lake. For the first year or so they lay low, keeping to themselves. Only Jack knows where they are, and he stopped trying to contact them months ago.

Three years after they move out of the Verger Estate the phone rings just after midnight. Margot grumbles and pushes her face deeper into the large down pillows. Alana smooths Margot’s hair before flipping back the covers and putting on her slippers, and wrapping a silk robe around herself. Downstairs, the kitchen is dark, save for the blinking blue light of the landline.

“Hello?” She yawns into the phone, rubbing sleep from her eyes. There is no response but the faint sound of breathing. “If this is some kind of prank-”

“Alana,” It feels like the temperature of the room has dropped instantaneously as the all too familiar voice continues, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

Her immediate instinct is to assume this is the Miriam Lass call all over again. She is about to hear Will beg for his life and Alana can’t handle that after two years.

Will Graham is dead. There is a grave in Arlington filled with trinkets and pictures. His body floated somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, bloated and pale, before it was picked to the bone by fish and crabs and then smoothed into sand by the waves. This is what Alana has told herself for the last three years. He is not on the phone talking to her while she stands in her freezing kitchen, in her expensive slippers and robe, while Margot and Morgan sleep upstairs. This is Hannibal Lecter having one last laugh, torturing them all with their failures.

“Don’t hang up,” the voice harshly interrupts her increasingly frantic thoughts. “I wanted to tell you that you and Margot are safe. We have no plans to call on you.”

“We?” Her voice sounds faint and weak and Alana hates herself a little for that. “Will, where are you?”

In the background she can hear a dog barking and indistinct words, “I have to go, my husband has made dinner reservations.”

“Wait,” she feels like she’s scrabbling at the string of a kite that is slipping through her fingers. “I-I hope your happy with your choice, Will.”

There are more indecipherable words that she assumes come from Hannibal, “I am. I know you can’t understand that, but I really am.” He pauses and for a moment Alana is sure he’s gone, “I don’t think we’ll be speaking again. Goodbye Alana.”

The line clicks dead, leaving Alana to stand in the darkened kitchen. If it weren’t for the dial tone emanating from the phone, she wouldn’t be sure that had actually just happened.

_Anything published on Will Graham will have to be done posthumously._

Feeling a bit numb, she climbs the stairs and toes off her slippers before sitting on the edge of the bed. She rubs her eyes and sheds her robe.

“Who was it?” Margot sits up in bed and wraps an arm around her waist, leaning her head against Alana’s.

Alana kisses her forehead, “A census taker.”

“At this hour?” Margot settles back into their bed, tugging the sheets up to her chest. She smiles sleepily at Alana.

Within minutes Margot is sleeping, her chest rising and falling rhythmically while Alana watches the moon traverse the night sky. Thoughts bounce around her skull like static on a screen. Dots in the void. Snow. Each without individual meaning, but coming together to form a jumbled image. It’s like she’s looking into a broken mirror, the reflection fractured and incomplete, yet it’s still recognizable.

Hannibal Lecter is the devil and Will Graham is the man who married him. What does that say about his heart and mind?

Whatever little happiness Will Graham has found, he deserves it. Even if it is with Hannibal Lecter, making late night calls to old friends like ghosts returning to an old haunt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Will rocks back and forth in Hannibal's lap he throws his head back, sweat slicking his hair to his scalp. Moans tumble from his lips and Hannibal's fingers crush into his hips, leaving a ring of purple bruises on his pale skin. He raises himself up on shaky legs only to slam back down again and again. The dark room echoes with their moans and the sounds of wet and slapping skin.

Falling into bed with Hannibal wasn't the crushing blow to his sexuality that Will would have expected. After years of ignoring the obvious signs, he almost feels embarrassed that it took this long. Will had never seen an uncut dick, let alone touched one before Hannibal's. After months of occasional kisses and lingering looks, a bottle of whiskey and a moment of impulsivity was all it took to break the glass ceiling Will had felt begin to shudder before they careened off the cliff.

Sure, the hasty jerk off session Will had had after they got to the house on the cliff probably should have tipped him off. The awkward conversation that had followed the discovery of a waterlogged condom box in Will’s coat at the Laundromat in Cumaná was also a strong indicator. But, in the end, does it really matter how they got to this point? Rough, strong hands and a flat hair dusted chest turn out to be no less arousing than cascades of hair and round breasts. Instead he is consumed by the feeling of damp skin and masculine grunting as Hannibal thrusts up inside him, stretching Will in ways he never even considered.

They hadn’t bothered with a condom. Knowing that Hannibal hadn’t had time to contract anything since he was declared clean in prison, and Will having only slept with Molly since his last checkup had only made it that much easier to shake his head when Hannibal glanced towards the bedside table. Besides, they had already bled all over each other plenty of times, it’s not like there was a good reason to. Though he won’t admit it, Will knows that having a barrier between them would have made him feel cheap and like he was lying to himself the same way he had been for years. He wants Hannibal, fully and completely with nothing between them.

Hannibal is looking up at him now, eyes blown wide and mouth agape. It strikes Will that he looks beautiful like this, vulnerable in a way he hasn't seen since the night they tumbled over the cliffside into an uncertain future. He is rubbing tiny circles into Will's hip bones, soothing the freshly forming bruises.

It’s gentler than he imagined, softer. How did he not notice what was happening sooner? How was he so blind to Hannibal for all these years? Hiding behind his fancy suits and flowered words is a man who has been seen, the only person who has ever seen Will. The intensity of his gaze makes Will's face flush. He ducks his head and catches a glimpse of their moving bodies in the mirror that stands in the corner of their bedroom.

Will is straddling Hannibal, knees braced on either side of Hannibal's legs which are bent to provide a better angle for Will to ride him, hands pressed flat against Hannibal’s chest. They move in sync, one being. As Will watches, antlers begin to sprout from his own temples, reaching towards the heavens. He pulls Hannibal up, the older man immediately wrapping his arms around Will's middle before twisting one hand into his hair and capturing his lips in a searing kiss. For a moment Will is worried that Hannibal will impale himself on the points that emerge from his skull. But madness cannot harm the devil.

He feels surrounded by Hannibal, his presence simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. His moans spill down Will's throat like water, seeping inside his pores and drowning out any other thoughts. Their flesh is burning hot, spit slicked lips plump and sucked red. It's as if with each thrust he is pulling Hannibal deeper inside himself, under his skin and inside his bones, irrevocably fusing them together. Will reaches down and runs a finger over the seam of where their bodies meet in a wet melding of flesh. Where Hannibal enters him again and again, his balls slapping the flesh of Will's ass and his shaft stretching Will's rim until it is a delicate pink. This elicits a groan from Hannibal who latches onto Will's neck and begins to suck a necklace of dark bruises into the pale column of his throat.

Hannibal runs his fingers along the smile that marrs Will’s stomach, interrupting the thatch of hair that runs to his groin. For a moment he thinks Hannibal will dig his fingers into the old wound to get further inside him. Worm his way back inside Will’s stomach just to feel where his dick bumps against his prostate with each thrust. He traces the brand on Hannibal’s back, the skin raised and tender. Together, they are a single mass of flesh, scarred and twisted with broken promises and misconstrued intentions.

Will feels his muscles starting to clench as he approaches his release. He rakes his fingers down Hannibal's back, drawing blood, and arches back, grinding down and forcing Hannibal deeper inside him. A silent scream rips through his body as he spills onto his chest. He is an exposed nerve as the waves of orgasm wash over him, his pulse thrumming in every inch of his being.

Antlers begin to sprout from Hannibal's temples. They tangle with Will's, enshrining them in a nest of horns and blocking out the soft moonlight that fills the room, plunging them both into darkness.

Hannibal seizes Will around the middle, guiding him down until he is flat on his back with his legs wrapped around Hannibal’s waist. He bends over Will, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He kisses along Will’s neck while thrusting into him in firm, steady strokes that inch Will up the bed, sheets tangling around them. Hannibal runs an appreciative hand down Will’s chest, across his collar bone and down his sternum before stroking along the jagged smile on his stomach. With a moan, Will hitches his legs higher up Hannibal’s waist, urging him deeper. Will is only dimly aware of Hannibal's grunts and pants as he empties himself inside his body, twisting his fingers into Will’s hair and mouthing against his neck.

When Hannibal finally slips out with a shudder he gathers Will in his hands and pulls him back against his chest so they are spooning. Their feet tangle together and Will wraps a hand around Hannibal’s bicep. He can feel Hannibal running a soothing hand through his sweaty hair and rubbing circles into his chest. Beneath Hannibal's ministrations Will is floating, hardly aware of anything other than where they are pressed against each other.

"I love you, Will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack is two months away from the mandatory retirement age of 57, four years after Hannibal and Will are officially declared dead. Unofficially, Jack picks his way through files and reports from around the globe, searching for a blurry photograph or a matching description, anything that will prove his hunch.

_Will you slip away with him?_

_Part of me will always want to._

Price and Zeller adopt a little girl from some Asian country he couldn’t find on a map. Trainees stare at him in the hall, offering up sad sympathetic smiles as they hurry past. He catches whispers of rumors and half truths in the cafeteria while eyes bore into him from all angles.

Will Graham; the FBI’s dirty laundry they have tried so desperately to hide amid mounds of court transcripts and police reports.

Jack is sure that Will and Hannibal are hiding somewhere in the hundreds of reported sightings of Hannibal the Cannibal the FBI gets each month, though the number of these reports are slowly beginning to dwindle.

Bedelia is found, missing one leg, face down in her rotting dinner, two months after he packs his credentials into cardboard boxes and leaves them to collect dust in his guest room, along with Bella’s nightgown and wedding dress. When the new head of behavioral science invites him to consult off the books he politely declines the offer.

Later he hears that there were three place settings at the table. Part of him wants so desperately to do up his tie, snap on a pair of latex gloves, and chase after Hannibal again. He wants to follow the trail of bodies and tableaus to Hannibal like a bloodhound after a rabbit. Jack misses the chase.

But he is also afraid of where the chase will take him. How many more innocent lives will be lost in the pursuit of Hannibal Lecter. At what cost does his capture come, and for how long will it last?

Another deeper part of him fears what he will find if they do sniff out Hannibal. What horrors await them. More specifically, who. The unanswered question of Will Graham lingers at the edge of his vision like a fraying thread. If Hannibal were alive and he had killed Will there would have been a grand display. Everyone would know that the Chesapeake Ripper had finally killed Will Graham. And yet, there has been no body, only the occasional sighting in Europe and South America, even one in Canada a few months ago.

Deep down, Jack knows he is more likely to find Will Graham in Hannibal Lecter’s bed than in his freezer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will slowly drifts into consciousness, shadows dissipating from his bleary eyes. For a moment he isn't sure where he is before he recognizes the familiar sight of the rich red walls of their bedroom in Santa Marta.

A finger trails down his neck before reaching the collar of his undershirt and retreating again. Soft puffs of air raise goose bumps along his skin and Will feels frozen as Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder. He begins to whisper soft words in what Will assumes in Lithuanian. Unabashed affection and tenderness rolls off him in waves, making Will want to melt against him.

This is not the Hannibal who flirts with elaborate meals and complex metaphors. Not the same Hannibal who crowded Will against the kitchen counter and sucked dark bruises into his neck the night after one of his students left flowers on his desk along with a poem.  This is a vulnerable and open Hannibal. They clash in his mind. Hannibal Lecter is not a man who presses a kiss to his lover's cheek before quietly treading downstairs to make breakfast.

Yet, Will finds himself laying in bed, the warmth of Hannibal's lips beginning to dissipate as the enticing scent of bacon wafts upstairs, wondering how this became his life.

Over the years they have made their way through the ancient cities of South America, never staying anywhere for more than a few months. They trace their fingers back through time and history, between the colorful houses of Rio De Janero and the cobble stone bridge of Las Lajas Cathedral.

Hannibal buys Will extravagant gifts in the countries they visit. On the fourth anniversary of their swan dive into the Atlantic he presents Will with a stone carving of a three headed dog.

The surface of the stone is jet black, seeming to pull in and swallow any light around it. Each head is different, one with its lips drawn back in a snarl, another’s tongue lolling between its fangs, and the last is standing at attention with its ears perked as if stalking prey.

“Cerberus was the guardian of the underworld. The faithful servant of Hades who ensured that only the dead could cross the river Styx, and none could return to the surface.” Hannibal watches Will cradle the stone dog in his hands, the black surface reflecting Will’s image back at him. “As his final labor, Hercules was instructed to bring Cerberus to the surface and present him to Eurystheus without using any weapons. Hercules succeeded and gave Cerberus the option to stay on the surface in the land of the living or go back to the underworld again. Cerberus chose to return to Hades where he remained for eternity.” Hannibal’s words hang in the air and both of them know they aren’t just talking about Greek myths anymore.

Will chews his lip, “In this metaphor are you Hades or Eurystheus?”

“That is up to you, Will.” Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s forehead and disappears into the kitchen, where the scent of bacon wafts through the air.

He stands, setting the carving on the mantle beneath some famous painting Hannibal picked up in Lima. Will wonders if the little dog will sit there for months or years before their next move. It will either watch them age from the mantle until they both quietly pass, buried side by side, or it will be auctioned off to the highest bidder, eager to get their hands on some macabre trinket from the South American love nest of the infamous Murder Husbands. Will knows which is more likely.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he strolls into the kitchen. Hannibal is leaning over a recipe box, the pan of bacon and eggs sizzling on the stove behind him. He looks up when Will enters the room and smiles, offering the box to him. Inside are not the overly pretentious recipes Hannibal is so fond of. In their place are a small selection of business cards that Hannibal has collected during their years in South America.

Hannibal is inviting him to hunt with him again.

“Will you join me in the underworld, dear Cerberus?” Hannibal whispers, taking Will’s hand in his and kissing the palm.

Will closes his eyes and nods, “You know I’ll always come back to you, Hannibal.”

The Will Graham that was born in a falling down hospital room with peeling wallpaper in Vatican, Louisiana is dead.

The Will Graham that was born in battle and baptized in blood and the salty spray of the Atlantic opens his eyes and kisses the man he loves so terribly.  

 

And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly:

_I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit_

-ECCLESIASTES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta dah! Hope you all enjoyed! Thanks again to all the amazing people who helped me stay sane while writing this fic with lots of positive vibes and kind words! I encourage you guys to check out my other fic Once More With Feeling if you liked this! Thanks for sticking with me! :3

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Miraeth](http://miraeth.tumblr.com/) for the amazing cover art and constant motivation!
> 
> Shout out to [Phenobarbital](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phenobarbital/pseuds/Phenobarbital) for being a lovely beta, as well as [HannibalsSketchBook](http://hannibalssketchbook.tumblr.com/) for helping me get this idea off the ground in the first place!


End file.
